


Fragments

by samalander



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Animal Harm, Community: be_compromised, Early Days, F/M, Found Family, Gen, farm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-05 09:58:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5371067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samalander/pseuds/samalander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton has brought home strays before, but never one as dangerous as Natasha Romanoff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fragments

**Author's Note:**

  * For [andibeth82](https://archiveofourown.org/users/andibeth82/gifts).



> With thanks to Enigma731 for the cheering, and to Arch for the beta  
>  _"The beauty of a fragment is that it still supports the hope of brilliant completeness."_ -Tobias Wolff  
> 

The plane has been in the air for a few hours when Natasha's captor -- her _savior_ \-- turns to look at her.

"You alive back there?" 

She just nods, the cuffs familiar and safe on her wrists. She'd insisted on them. Demanded. Her captor -- Hawkeye, he's called, though he says he prefers Clint -- seems to have some dumb belief that she's a person, and not a time bomb.

"We're ten out," he says, the plane dipping lower. "Almost there."

Natasha doesn't speak as the plane skims low over the trees, the ground rushing up to meet her. The man who's flying is strange, but he didn't become strange in the air. Anyone who could look at a weapon and decide to save it is a strange person.

She hopes, for a moment, that the plane will crash, that she won't have to face whatever is waiting for her. Whatever punishments the world has come up with.

"So," the man says, flicking a few switches. "This is a safe house. This is my safe house. There is a woman who lives here. You will not hurt her. If you hurt her, the deal is off."

Natasha nods once. She understands attachment, knows that there are people who need other people. There's even a thing, she thinks, called love. A weakness. Maybe this man knows that he's just exposed himself, just rolled over and shown his soft underbelly. Maybe, but probably not.

* * *

The woman who lives in the house is small and has dark hair. Natasha thinks of three ways to kill her in the time it takes Hawkeye to introduce them, to say the woman is called Laura.

Natasha barely glances at her, opting instead to take in the clutter and detritus of a lived-in space. She's never actually seen a room like this, with a shaggy carpet and a sagging couch. It looks like it fell out of an American sitcom. 

"Zdravstvuyte," the woman says. Her voice is barely accented, and what is there isn't American. Natasha's head snaps up, meeting the other woman's eyes and taking in every measured breath that passes as the seconds move between them.

"I know you," she says, instead of a greeting.

Laura -- her name can't be Laura -- laughs. "Do you? And who am I?"

There's no answer to that, and Natasha just shakes her head. This is a house of secrets, then. A place of lies.

No wonder she was brought here.

"Take those off," Laura says, her eyes dark as she studies the cuffs that circle Natasha's wrists. "You're not a prisoner here."

Hawkeye moves to do as he's told, producing the key from a pocket of his uniform and opening the cuffs, robbing Natasha of the last familiar sensation she has in the too-bright room.

* * *

"The guest room isn't the best," Hawkeye says, leading Natasha upstairs as the shadows lengthen and the sounds of cooking start to emanate from the kitchen. "It needs a new carpet, and I think it could use a big bay window, but, you know. There's a bed."

He opens a door and motions Natasha through it. "There's a bathroom there --" he points to the left, where yellow wallpaper is beginning to peel in a corner around a door with chipped white paint. "Hot and cold water. Obnoxious wallpaper. Lots of framed silhouettes." He smiles at her. "You hungry? Laura makes a great stew, good for a night like this one."

Something is off balance in Natasha. She feels almost concussed by the house, by the way these people are treating her.

"I can't sleep here," she says, studying the bed frame. "There are -- you know how many weapons are in this room?"

"How many?" he asks, raising a sardonic eyebrow. 

"The bedframe --" she says, eyeing the heavy wood slabs. "I can't be -- contained."

He shakes his head. "You don't -- look, kid. Natasha. You're dangerous. But you're not with rubes, and you're not the most dangerous person here. If you believe nothing else, then believe that I'm not going to let you kill me, or hurt Laura. Okay?"

Natasha surveys his body for a moment, thinking about pressure points, and how long it would take her to get to the jet, to get herself to someone who would actually kill her like they should. 

"Okay," she says. "Will you -- Can I take a shower?"

He smiles, his eyes wrinkling at the corners. It makes her queasy, how soft he looks, how _good_.

"Yeah," Hawkeye says, taking a step back. "There are towels in there. I'll get you some of Laura's clothes."

She nods, stripping her shirt off casually, keeping her eyes locked on his. 

"Want to join me?" she purrs, smiling slightly, tracing her finger over his chest and thinking about how blood can circle a drain, when the water is right. " _Hawkeye_?"

He actually laughs. "The name is Clint," he says, taking a step out of her reach. "And no. But thanks. Maybe another time."

Natasha stands stunned for a moment, waiting for the other shoe to drop, the moment when it starts to hurt. Instead Hawkeye's smile is warm, and she feels something drop inside her as he turns his back and walks away.

It won't be the last time she thinks how easy this fool will be to kill, she knows that. But it's the first time that she thinks maybe she won't have to.

* * *

She doesn't join them for dinner, opting instead to study the room, make sure she knows the ways in and out, make sure she's not being set up.

(She's not sure. She's never going to be sure.)

The bed is too soft, and her free wrist is downright distracting. She's never slept like this, not as herself. From time to time she's done it on assignment, but she's not Natasha on assignment, and Natasha doesn't know how to let go unless she's being held up.

They must think she's asleep, Hawkeye and his woman, because their voices carry to her room.

Or maybe they don't care.

"I don't know," Laura is saying, her voice still holding its American accent, but Natasha knows there's something off about it, no matter how practiced the inflection is.

"Trust me," Hawkeye tells her, muffled and far away. In the bathroom, maybe, or the closet. This is pillow talk, then. The kind of talk that people do when they think they're safe with each other.

"Trust isn't the issue," Laura shoots back. "The issue is that you -- you don't just make a unilateral decision like this. Not without telling Nick."

"I told him!" Hawkeye says, and Natasha is surprised that there's not malice in his voice. He has the kind of voice that carries malice so well.

Laura's laugh is almost sweet. Almost. "After you got here."

"She won't hurt you," Clint says, over the sound of fabric sliding on fabric. They're getting into bed. Together. Voluntarily.

"I know. But it's not a great idea."

A click echoes -- someone's turned a light off, and the hall outside Natasha's room darkens accordingly. "Laura," Hawkeye's voice is sweet. "If you're expecting good decisions from this mess, you're gonna be let down."

Natasha is holding her breath, waiting for the next sound, the next words that will give her the ammunition she needs to control the situation. "Promise me," Laura whispers. "If -- if things go like they might. Promise me you'll do what you have to."

Hawkeye doesn't reply, but Natasha stays up the rest of the night, waiting.

* * *

"Three rules," Laura says, her posture no nonsense. "You break a rule, we reevaluate you staying here. Okay?"

Natasha nods. 

"Rule one, our home is your home. You make yourself comfortable, but you keep our safety in mind, okay?"

Natasha nods. "What does that mean?"

"It means -- it means you can patrol the perimeter, but if you set traps, you tell us where and how to disarm them."

There's no way she's doing that, but Natasha inclines her head anyway. "Okay."

Laura runs a hand through her hair. "Rule two, this is a working farm. You learn how to do chores, and you help out."

That seems odd, and Natasha cocks her head to the side. "Chores?"

"You help in the garden," Laura says, shrugging. "You go to town with Clint. Maybe you learn to change the oil in the truck. I don't care. You're going to contribute."

"Fine," Natasha says, her mind whirring with possibilities. There are lots of ways to spin this as being good for her -- not least of which is that, if she's growing and preparing the food, then she knows it's safe. For her, anyway.

"Rule three," Laura fixes her with a stare. "You don't kill anything -- _anything_ \-- without asking me or Clint first."

"What if something attacks us?"

The room is warm, and Natasha feels her skin crawling at the sudden claustrophobic sensation. It's like she's being restrained, like she's being blindfolded or broken. Killing is who she is. It's what she does.

"You run," Laura tells her, and she looks deadly serious. "You run and you hide."

* * *

It turns out dirt has a smell, when you turn it over. A kind of rich smell, somehow musty and clean as Natasha sinks her hands into the dark soil. Her knees are wet from kneeling, but Natasha doesn't mind. It’s a new feeling, the feeling of soft, almost spongy earth between her fingers.

Laura and Clint have given her a corner of the garden, and told her she can grow whatever she wants. She's tossing ideas back and forth -- nightshade is a cliche, and rhubarb just seems unwieldy. Maybe oleander, or elderberry. There has to be something that she can plant that will help her. 

"Hey," Laura says, appearing at Natasha's shoulder. 

"Do you grow potatoes?" Natasha asks, not turning.

Laura's laugh is gentle, a kind of chuckle that Natasha doesn't know how to read -- it could be kindness, or it could just be a chuckle. "We do."

"They're poisonous," Natasha says, softly. 

"So are tomatoes, in the right circumstances," Laura says. "Anything could kill you if you give it the chance."

Natasha stands, her hands stained with the black dirt, and the knees of her borrowed jeans clinging to her legs. "Is that so?"

The smile Laura gives her is almost feral, unrestrained and dangerous. "If you give it the chance."

"кто ты?" Natasha whispers, her eyes narrowing.

Laura shrugs as Hawkeye appears at the top of the garden, whistling a tuneless song.

"I'm Laura Nelson," she says, her voice saccharine sweet. "Engaged to marry Clinton Barton. Why are you asking?"

Natasha doesn't answer, just watches the way the other woman moves to greet Hawkeye. She's devoid of affect, so completely blank that she has to be doing it consciously.

"No, you aren't," Natasha mutters, but Laura is already gone.

* * *

There's an old dog on the farm that likes Natasha, for whatever reason. It's some kind of brown dog, with floppy ears and a cold nose and a stubby little tail that it wags when she gets near, and someone named him Glock. Which is a terrible name for a dog.

It likes to come with her when she walks, when she paces along the treeline to memorize the property. Natasha has never known a dog like this dog, has never seen an animal that just likes to follow a person around and be a dog near them.

"We're going hunting tomorrow," Hawkeye tells her. "You, me, and Glock."

"Glock hunts?" Natasha asks, poking at the dinner in front of her.

"Not well." He shrugs. "Not like he used to. But he likes to come with me."

Laura stands to pick up Hawkeye's plate, to carry them to the kitchen. Natasha watches her move, still entranced by the movements she makes and how she interacts with her surroundings.

"You ever shot a bow?" Hawkeye asks, leaning back in his chair.

"No," Natasha says. "Not like you do."

"No one shoots like he does," Laura laughs, reentering the room.

Hawkeye smiles up at her, looking at his fiancée like she's said something notable, and not just stated the truth. He's a marksman. He's an archer. A bowman. No one shoots like him, because other people miss.

"She says I'm not allowed to kill things," Natasha says.

Hawkeye rolls his eyes. "Without permission. This is permission."

Natasha looks between the two of them before standing, her mostly uneaten dinner still in front of her. "What time are we leaving?"

* * *

She hasn't ventured much into the forest in the few weeks she's been on the farm. There's something odd about it, something wild and raw that makes Natasha unsure about her footing. But she follows Hawkeye and Glock into the trees at 5 am, doing her best to move silently over the leaves and twigs.

She has a bow, just like Hawkeye. It would be easy, she thinks, to shoot him in the back, to put an arrow through his neck. Instead she glances around at how the light is distorted through the leaves.

"Why did you name your dog for a gun?" she asks, when the silence becomes too heavy.

"I didn't," Hawkeye says, his voice far away, somehow. "I named him for a xylophone."

Natasha actually stops to consider that, watching as her improbable host glides forward on cat feet, measured and steady.

"What?"

"His name is Glockenspiel, yeah? Like the instrument."

Somehow, that's worse. "Why?"

Hawkeye shrugs, glancing back at her as he does. "Cause I like the word. He doesn't know. It's just a name."

"Like Hawkeye?" she asks, falling into step beside him, hurrying a little to match his pace.

"Like Black Widow," he agrees.

They walk in silence for a while longer, Glock plodding carefully along next to them.

"You know anything about deer?" Hawkeye asks, finally.

"No." She says, shaking her head. "I only know how to kill a person."

"If they have white spots," Hawkeye glances over at her, "don't shoot. Babies aren't good to kill."

Natasha lets that roll around in her head for a moment. "Why?"

The wind picks up, singing an eerie song between the branches above them. "Because," Hawkeye says, finally. "If you kill all the little ones, there aren't any big ones in a few years. You don't wanna wipe 'em out."

"So you don't kill babies?" she asks, the idea somehow intriguing to her.

"Babies or children," he says.

For the first time since meeting him, their age difference suddenly becomes clear to Natasha. He's probably nearly twice her age -- she'd peg him somewhere between 25 and 30 to her 16 winters.

"Any children?" she says, softly.

"You're not a child," he says. "I don't think anyone ever let you be."

Natasha shrugs. He has no idea how true that really is.

* * *

Natasha likes to take walks. The property extends behind the treeline, but it feels wrong to go into the forest without Hawkeye, even if Glock is with her. She wakes at dawn, patrols the edge of the clearing, and then comes back to stare at breakfast and help with chores.

She's good with her hands. Years of agility training have somehow sharpened her reflexes, her mechanical skill, and it's not long before Natasha can flat-out take apart the tractor and put it back together. She likes the feel of metal under her fingers, the way it feel familiar and safe. Better than dirt, than earth.

Which, if she's being honest, isn't all that bad, either. There's something to be said for dirt.

After a month of farm living, Hawkeye gets called away. It's not unexpected, Natasha thinks, but it's odd to be left alone with Laura.

They eat quiet breakfasts. She's learning to like coffee and appreciate scrambled eggs after years of simple porridge. It feels decadent, but sometimes decadence is okay.

"Are you sleeping better?" Laura asks, on the third day after Hawkeye leaves.

"Better than what?" Natasha asks.

Laura sighs, shaking her head. "Are you at least resting at night?"

"No," Natasha says. She's not. This is still wrong, and the feeling of being untethered is too hard to come to terms with.

Laura stands and picks up a box from the counter.

"Here," she says, handing it to Natasha, who feels frozen. She wills her hands to reach for the box, but she can't seem to move.

"What is it?" she asks, finally.

"A gift."

A gift. Natasha has never been given a gift before, not one that was given without expectation. "What is it for?"

"For you," Laura says, putting the box on the table.

Natasha eyes it suspiciously for another moment before opening the box.

It's a bangle, a bracelet that glitters in the light of the early morning. "What is this?" she asks, lifting it.

"I make -- things," Laura shrugs. "Thought it might help you relax."

Natasha doesn't say anything, just slips the bangle onto her wrist and stands, heading out for another lap of the property.

* * *

Hawkeye comes back after a week away. Natasha decides to spend the day outside, giving him and Laura the space they need, letting them reconnect. 

She doesn't like the idea of sex for connection, to be honest. It makes her skin crawl. So she takes Glock and walks, into the woods and away.

She loses track of things, concentrating on knowing where she is, orienting herself with the sun and the trees. It's weird, nature. Weird to see things living and thriving after being sealed in a bunker for most of her life.

It's her fault. It's Natasha's fault for not being more aware, for not watching Glock. For taking him for granted.

It's her fault because she doesn't react when the screaming starts.

In fact, it almost seems normal, right, that there should be a sound of pain. Pain is natural, pain is right. Pain is life. 

But the noises aren't right. Natasha spins on her heel after a moment, the rattling, wheezing scream hard to locate for a moment. Then her brain connects the site of Glock, half of his body hidden behind a tree, and the noise.

She lifts the dog bodily, hoisting him in the air and away from what's making the noise. His snout is bloody, small piles of fur on the forest floor. 

Rabbits. He found a rabbit den.

Natasha takes stock, tries to think through the noise she's hearing, the noise that's scattering her brain. She reaches down and touches the tiny animal, no bigger than her fist, and lifts it to her face. "Hush," she commands, and she stands, cradling it against her chest.

It's a baby. She isn't supposed to kill babies. She isn't supposed to kill at all. It will die. It should die.

The thoughts overwhelm her, and Natasha turns on her heel, running as fast as she can for the house.

* * *

Laura finds a basket, and Hawkeye finds a heat lamp to keep the bunny warm.

"You did good," he says, meeting Natasha's eyes. "You did right, bringing it back. But -- but wild rabbits sometimes just die. For no reason. You understand?"

Natasha nods. Of course. Everything dies, and there is no reason.

"I'm sorry I let Glock get to them."

"Not your fault," Laura tells her, the kindness in her voice somehow devastating.

Hawkeye shows her how to twist a towel into a nipple, and Natasha sits at the table all day, watching the frantic creature as it sleeps. She feeds it when it's awake, offering it grass and carrots and water.

It takes some at first, and then rests. Natasha puts her head on the table softly, so she can look into the bunny's eyes.

"You can name it," Laura says.

Natasha shakes her head. "What do you call a bunny?"

"What do you like?"

That's an odd question. Natasha doesn't _like_ anything. "Goulash," she says, finally. "It's called Goulash."

* * *

They take turns watching the bunny, Natasha never feeling right when she isn't there. Her turns are long. She owes the thing. If she hadn't decided to head into the forest, this never would have happened.

Lunch comes and goes, and dinner, and the sun sets while Natasha sits at the table, watching the bunny. It's gotten slower, she thinks. Maybe it's getting used to being inside, maybe it's accepting being safe.

Around midnight, Natasha's eyes sagging and Hawkeye snoring lightly in the chair next to her, Goulash takes one long breath, and closes his eyes.

_Everything dies, and there is no reason._

* * *

Glock is waiting at the foot of Natasha's bed when she comes upstairs, her legs heavy and her chest tight. She thinks she might cry, if she knew how. Instead she just feels cold and angry, a kind of rage that she's cultivated too long.

"Get out," she growls at the dog, her voice unsteady. "Get OUT."

She's yelling. Her voice rises, hysterics threatening to shatter her into a thousand pieces as she screams at the dog. "Get out of my room!"

Hawkeye appears behind her, out of breath from what must have been a frenzied charge to save her from his idiotic murdering dog.

"Natasha," he says, laying a hand on her shoulder.

"Get out!" she screams again, batting his hand away. "Get out before I kill you both!"

He doesn't move for a second, and the bends to hook a finger into the dog's collar.

"I'm not afraid of you," he says, softly, watching Natasha as she trembles. "But if you don't want me in your room, I won't stay."

"Get out!" she yells again, feeling like she's going to fall to ashes any moment, like she burning from the inside.

Hawkeye nods, leaving the room with the dog, and shutting the door behind him

Natasha takes a moment to scream again before she slumps next to the bed and pulls her knees to her chest.

* * *

Laura brings a tray the next morning.

"Glock is staying in the barn for a few days," she says. "You can't hurt him, but you don't have to see him."

Natasha growls.

Laura smiles sadly and perches at the end of Natasha's bed.

"I was a lot like you, you know," she says softly. "I was scared. I was lonely and broken and -- and feral. I was something someone else had made."

"Yeah, right," Natasha snorts. "What do you know about being made?"

"I know that the hardest part of it is deciding who you are, when the architects step back. But -- but I did it. Clint showed me. And if you want to, we can show you, too."

Natasha narrows her eyes. "And what if I kill you, and your murdering dog, first?"

Laura shrugs. "Then at least we tried."

* * *

Natasha pulls on her shoes when Laura leaves and slides the knife she's been hiding under her pillow into a pocket. Then she climbs out the window, dropping silently onto the ground below. 

She stands in front of the closed door of the barn, fury and sorrow raging in her chest. She wants to open the door, to take her anger and put it somewhere outside. But something is stopping her. Something she can't understand. She draws the knife, her hand on the door.

"No," Natasha breathes. "No. This -- not now. Not yet."

She pivots on her toes and throws the knife, watching as it sinks, satisfyingly, into the bark of a tree.

"I hate you," she says out loud, but she's not sure who, exactly, she's saying it to.

* * *

Natasha stops patrolling the perimeter in the morning, opting instead to stay in bed. Hawkeye and Laura whisper about her, wonder if there's anything they can do, if this is normal.

But nothing changes; Laura brings meals on a tray, and Natasha picks at them. They try to make conversation and she falls asleep. It's not kind, but it's easier than being present. And right now Natasha needs easy. She needs not to think about what it means to kill a baby, to be so driven by instinct and bloodlust that she could murder indiscriminately.

She stays in bed for three days. Sometime around noon of the fourth day after Goulash died, she hears the truck start up, and watches the cloud of dust head away from the house.

She wonders if she's alone, if they've finally let her be.

Laura is in the kitchen when Natasha wanders down. She's baking. Which, she does that. Laura does a lot of things that Natasha wonders at -- what must she be distracting herself from to need to stay so busy?

"Hello," Laura says, not looking up. "There's coffee in the pot, and Clint went to town."

"What's this?" Natasha asks, picking up a small jar filled with what looks like a white sponge instead of parsing the words.

"This is a sourdough starter," Laura says, glancing over her shoulder. "It's like 200 years old. You use it to make bread."

Natasha raises an eyebrow. "200 year old bread?"

The low chuckle is almost familiar, now, and Laura's eyes are kind. "You ever had sourdough?"

"No," Natasha shrugs, watching the way Laura moves, the way she collects ingredients. It's fluid in a way, she moves like a dancer.

 _A dancer_. Something clicks in Natasha's head, things slide into place, and she finally understands.

"When did you come to America?" Natasha asks, taking a step towards her host.

"Ten years ago," Laura says, not looking up as she turns the oven on. "Why?"

Natasha smiles, reaching out to touch Laura's shoulder. Laura freezes before turning her head to look at Natasha. 

"Why?" she asks, again.

"Does he know?" Natasha asks.

Laura raises an eyebrow. "Know what?"

The air between them is electric. "What you are? What you did?"

"What," Laura laughs. "You think you're the first stray he ever brought home? Clint loves collecting puppies."

Natasha surges forward, pressing her lips to Laura's, feeling the spark between them ignite. "What is your name?" she asks again, her voice low.

"Сестричка," Laura says, kindly. "My name is Laura Nelson. Who I was doesn't matter, okay? It's who I am."

The words are kind, but Natasha feels them like a smack. "No," she breathes. "You're -- you're one of us. You always are."

Laura smiles sadly and touches Natasha's shoulder. "No, little sister. No, you get to be what you want. What you decide."

Natasha puts the starter down and turns, running up the stairs again.

* * *

Hawkeye comes home a few hours later, and the whispers start again. It isn't long before someone knocks at her door. Natasha has been expecting a knock at the door.

"Come in," she says, though she wishes she could tell him to piss off.

"Natasha," Hawkeye says, softly. "Hey, sorry to bug you and I'm not accusing you of anything, but Glock is missing. Have you seen him?"

Natasha sits up, the hairs on the back of her neck bristling. "No," she says. "Do you need help looking?"

"Please," he says, stepping back.

Natasha stands and gets dressed.

* * *

It's getting dark, which complicates things. They fan out, calling for Glock as they walk through the woods. He shouldn't have gotten far; he never goes far. But he doesn't respond to calling, and daylight is fading.

"Glock!" Natasha calls, sweeping her flashlight over unfamiliar trees. The property is big enough that she can only vaguely hear Hawkeye and Laura calling as she steps into the forest.

"Glock!"

She doesn't want to walk far, doesn’t want to complicate things by getting lost herself, so Natasha starts to move around the perimeter, echoing the morning walks she doesn't take anymore.

It's not long before she hears a sound that isn't human. A pain sound. A sound like the bunnies made, but more pathetic.

"Glock?"

The noise comes again, a frightened yip.

Her flashlight catches a glint of silver and she sees him, his paw bloodied in a trap. "Dammit," Natasha breathes, rushing forward.

Glock's hackles raise, and he growls low.

"Yeah," Natasha sighs. "I know what you mean. But you gotta let me help."

Glock snaps at her as she reaches forward.

"Hey!" she snaps, pulling her hand away, the silver on her wrist glinting in concert with his. "You want me to kill you? I can kill you. But I can also get you out of here and get you home. What do you want?"

The dog doesn't answer.

"You're a murderer," Natasha says, her voice low as she inches forward. "You killed those bunnies because you wanted to. Because something told you to. And that's not okay. It's not good to do that."

Her hand is on the contraption now, but Glock is still. Maybe her voice is soothing. "And you know what? I get it. I do. I understand. It's hard not to do what you're programmed to do. But I -- You're weak, right now. And I should kill you. But someone told me I wasn't allowed. That I had to ask. And I guess you -- you can't do that, huh?"

The metal is old, rusty, and it's hard to work. But she can feel it loosening as she talks, her nimble fingers working it open. "So, you know. You're a dog. You don't get choices. But if you did, I think you'd be sorry, right? You'd want to change?"

 

The trap pops open and Glock howls in pain, his paw red and inflamed.

Natasha scoops him into her arms and runs, like she ran with Goulash, to find Hawkeye.

* * *

"Fucking coyote traps," Hawkeye snaps, when he sees his dog. "Fucking -- who uses a leg hold trap, huh? Who?"

Laura looks up from the table where she's bandaging Glock's paw, having produced a veterinary first-aid kit from thin air.

"Clint," she says, softly. "Not helping."

He hangs his head for a moment. "How is he?"

"He's gonna be fine," Laura says.

Natasha lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding as she watches Laura finish the bandaging job.

"Thanks for finding him," Hawkeye says, for the ninth time. "I mean it."

Natasha smiles at him, feeling oddly shy about the whole thing. "He's a good dog," she says softly. "Even if he kills things, sometimes."

"Yeah," Barton nods. "That's pretty much true of everyone in the room. Good, kills things from time to time."

The idea of being called _good_ is so alien to Natasha, so odd and out of place that she has to take a moment to digest it before she can reply.

"Good," she says, tasting the word. "Is that what I am?"

Laura smiles at her, reaching out to take Barton's hard. "It's what you can be," she says. "If you want."

Natasha nods, thinking a moment before squaring her shoulders and meeting Barton's gaze. "Okay," she says. "So, where do I start?"

He smiles and drops Laura's hands so he can turn and face Natasha. "First, you get a good night's sleep," he says. "Then tomorrow we're gonna see about what you can do, yeah? We'll talk to some friends of mine."

Natasha raises an eyebrow. "You recruiting me, Barton?" she asks, the sardonic tilt to her voice somehow surprising.

"You wanna be recruited?" he asks, matching her tone.

Natasha considers for a long moment. "I've got some debts to pay," she says. "So yeah. Yes."

"Okay," Barton says, offering her a hand. "Agent Romanoff, welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D."

She reaches forward and takes his hand, shaking it once. "Thank you," she says, and she hopes he understands what she means.


End file.
